Freya gasped, her vision swimming, but her will was iron.
She rose, her hands glowing brighter, frost swirling around like a snow storm.
She trapped the bear's hind legs in ice, anchoring her, and darted close, her fists encased in frozen gauntlets, slamming into the bear's ribs—crunch—the sound visceral, the bear's roar faltering.
The bear broke free, her claws slashing, catching Freya's thigh, blood soaking her pants, but Freya countered, freezing the bear's other paw, then her chest, the ice creeping, slowing her.
The bear's movements grew sluggish, her breath labored, her eyes wide with dawning fear.
Freya's eyes burned, her past flashing—her first kill, a boy frozen solid, his heart stilled, his face etched in terror.
She channeled that memory, anger sprouted within her, hands blazing with cold, and with a primal scream, she unleashed a torrent of ice, encasing the bear completely.
